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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393259">she is an overflowing cup (of venom)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sol_lune/pseuds/sol_lune'>sol_lune</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Bianchi-centric, Gen, Love, Panic Attacks, Poison, Poisoning, Rebirth, Reincarnation, Self-Discovery, Trauma, bianchi &amp; hayato are not okay, bianchi is kind of "baaaad at love ooH oh", echos of the past, spite, toxic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 03:07:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,379</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29393259</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/sol_lune/pseuds/sol_lune</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Bianchi swears off the idea of a "happily-ever-after" at the precocious age of four. Throughout the years, love finds her anyway with mixed-results.</p>
<p>AU - Bianchi remembers the life of Haruno Sakura, specifically one Uchiha Sasuke's part in it. <em>Yeah.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bianchi &amp; Gokudera Hayato, Bianchi (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!) &amp; Haruno Sakura</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Identity Crisis, The weak are meat; the strong eat</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>she is an overflowing cup (of venom)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>childhood is like a dream, it comes to an end when you wake up</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>take the information on the poisonous food/animals with a grain of salt. i won't knowingly include false information, but i might be exaggerating or omitting details for dramatic effect and/or literary purposes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>[<strong>elderberry</strong> <strong>wine</strong>]</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>poison properties: the seeds, stems, leaves, and roots of the fruit contain a <strong>cyanide</strong>-inducing glycoside.</p>
<p>symptoms include: <strong>nausea</strong>, vomiting, diarrhea, and <strong>coma</strong>.</p>
<p>danger level ranked: <strong>low</strong>.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>“<em>Miss Bianchi, come back here at once!</em>”</p>
<p>The starched fabric of her white skirt flutters about her legs as she runs through the garden, ignoring the distant calls. Bianchi darts along pathways lined by tall, lush hedges with unbound hair trailing behind her in streams. She comes to a full stop in the center of the maze and flops down on the lawn circle, staring up at the blue sky with wide eyes. </p>
<p>The sun is bright and warms through chilled skin. Taking a deep breath in, she inhales the earthy mineral scent of the ground mingling with a sweet freshness that comes from the soft vegetation cushioning her flushed cheek. She rolls a bit and shucks off little dirt-dulled shoes to wiggle her toes in the dew-cool grass. </p>
<p>A variety of full flowers sway against the wind’s steady puffs. She idly plucks a dandelion and makes a wish that sends fluff flying everywhere. Sprawled languidly beneath the sky, it’s just her and the colorful blooms soaking up the heat of the sun. </p>
<p>She will be found soon enough, but until then, Bianchi enjoys the peaceful freedom the garden offers. </p>
<p>.</p>
<p>[<em><strong>seed</strong></em>]</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>“She looks like a doll,” cooed the woman in blue.</p>
<p>Bianchi’s cheek is held captive, pinched between two slender fingers. She makes careful eye-contact with the woman gracefully crouched before her.</p>
<p>“<em>Grazie</em>,” she murmurs, struggling not to sneeze- the overwhelming smell of artificial floral perfume burns her nose -but knowing she is expected to give courtesy for the observation, despite not being the one addressed.</p>
<p>“And so well-mannered!” trills the woman, looking absolutely delighted as she studies Bianchi’s face.</p>
<p>Mamma’s hand is light on her shoulder. Bianchi bobs her head best she can.</p>
<p>“Oh,” the woman sighs suddenly with longing. “I want one <em> just </em> like her!” </p>
<p>A tug has Bianchi listing to the side as the hand that still had a hold on her round cheek moved, accompanying the declaration. Bianchi’s hands twist, hidden, into her skirts and clench. </p>
<p>“She must be your <em> piccola rosa rosa</em>,” the woman continues, red lips curling at the repetition for pink rose and looking over Bianchi’s head to Mamma and Papa who stand silently (are they pleased? are they <em> proud</em>?) behind her. “Especially with that coloring, she’ll-“</p>
<p>“<b>Enough</b>.” </p>
<p>The irritated word cuts the woman off as the man at her side finally deigns to speak.</p>
<p>The woman’s fingers tighten and Bianchi squeaks at the unexpected flare of pain. Her cheek is quickly relinquished and with an airy apology, the woman straightens up. Her warm eyes are suddenly cold. The sight makes something in Bianchi’s chest squirm in discomfort, gaze darting between the woman and man.</p>
<p>She resists the urge to touch her cheek and steps back into Mother’s legs, reassured at the brush of fabric along her bare arm and the hand still on her shoulder. The man gives Bianchi a glance that locks her limbs in place before turning to look directly ahead again. </p>
<p>“It is as you said, wife,” he intoned. “A pretty child.”</p>
<p>Papa and Mamma lead the couple into the dining room. Bianchi remains where she is and raises a hand to her sore cheek.</p>
<p>She wonders if the bruise will be pink as a rose. </p>
<p>.</p>
<p>[<strong><em>sprout</em></strong>]</p>
<p>.</p>
<p><em> Doll. </em> A beautiful boy (she is partial to that type) with red hair and golden eyes. She knocks him from the shelf he is propped atop. Porcelain skin cracks and shatters. Puppet strings fall slack. She- young, but more than old enough to fight -emerges victorious over a legend.</p>
<p><em> Well-mannered. </em> It is in girlhood that she develops a terrible temper. Even with her finely-honed control, she never outgrows it. Just as she never lets go of her love for a traitorous boy-turned man who is more angry, desolate storm than warm, living flesh and bone. Love-obssession-insanity infects her, consuming in its intensity, and when he crushes her offered heart in his fist, she smiles through tears as he finally breaks her. </p>
<p><em> I want one </em> just <em> like her! </em> No one looks at her and sees potential. The princess-Sanin-Hokage is the first. She refuses to disappoint the only person that ever expected <em> more </em> from her so she works hard, pushes herself to the edge and then collapsing past it. The competitive edge that has always been present flourishes as she and her health, questions, concerns, and skills are taken seriously. Weaknesses are corrected, muscle packed on her body, and a woman takes the place of a girl. She surpasses her master, surpasses expectations, surpasses barriers, surpasses <em> death</em>, surpasses everything in her way, (all but <em> them</em>, ruinous and careless in their destruction).</p>
<p><em> Piccolo rosa rosa. </em> Cherry blossoms. Peacetime and battlefields. Powder-pink hair marks her as exotic, a commodity to be leered at and propositioned. She can count her ribs, doesn’t recognize the sunken features in the reflection of a kunai blade; starving, her hip bones jut out sharply. Bright, forest-green eyes carry a civilian-like light. Skin soft, scars white, trembling hands cup her rounded stomach; she can hear the flutter of a second heartbeat, the sound of dreams coming true. <em><strike> <b>Sakura-chan!</b> </strike></em></p>
<p><em> A pretty child. </em> She is a healer first, soldier second. She is a woman, famous, revered, known, recognized, powerful. She is still the same girl that wants to <em> win</em>, desperate for attention, willing to wait forever, to support him in all things. Her love comes back and old insecurities return with him, reducing her back (she lets him, <b>why?</b>) to weak, <em> annoying</em>. Back to younger years, when taunts of “nobody will love you with that forehead!” were common. Because she is- <em> was? </em> - ”too ugly (not beautiful enough, not strong enough, not smart enough, not brave enough, <em> not enough</em>) for Sasuke-”</p>
<p>Sasuke.</p>
<p>
  <b>Sasuke.</b>
</p>
<p>
  <b> <em>SASUKE.</em> </b>
</p>
<p>Bianchi wakes up.</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>[<em><strong>bud</strong></em>]</p>
<p>.</p>
<p>The doctor Papa sent for recommends constant supervision and confined bedrest. A maid with gentle hands is assigned to her and spends the day standing quietly in the corner of her bedroom. </p>
<p>It isn’t mentioned in her presence, but she hears the servants’ whispers past the closed door. They talk of how unsettling her screams had been, the fear in the little miss’s eyes as she clawed at her chest like she was dying. </p>
<p>When weeks pass and her behavior remains the same without improvement, listlessly flipping through her flower book, they begin to wonder if there was no “like” about it and she did die that night: soul gone, body still functioning. </p>
<p>Bianchi stares out the window and pretends she <strike> (is alive) </strike> can feel the sun.</p>
<p>She is Bianchi and Bianchi is not dead, nor dying.</p>
<p>The healer is dead, had been dying, and she is not the healer.</p>
<p>She is Bianchi, <em> not the healer</em>. </p>
<p>Bianchi is alive, she is stroking the glossy page of the flower book in her lap as the maid reads the words aloud. She lets the maid’s low and even, soothing almost, voice wash over her, lets herself be comforted. The page they are on has a bright picture. It is detailed and she admires the image in a vague fashion. </p>
<p>A rose.</p>
<p>The meaning of roses change with their color. White for innocence and purity. Pink is gratitude, grace, and joy. Red means love. </p>
<p>The maid stops talking and Bianchi looks up in confusion only to blink up at the ceiling of her room instead. She is flat on her back, but when did that happen? </p>
<p><b>Red means love.</b> Red are his eyes, red is her heart in his red fist, red is the blood between her thighs, red is the last color she sees. <b>Love means red.</b> </p>
<p><strong>Red</strong> means she’s <strong>dying</strong>. <strong>Love</strong> means she’s already <strong>dead</strong>.</p>
<p>“-Bianchi! Miss Bianchi! Please focus on me, feel my hand- “</p>
<p>Oh. She squeezes the hand and gasps, throat finally opening to allow her some air. On the edge of her vision, she can see the maid looking panicked.</p>
<p>“Yes! Good girl, that’s it. Just listen to my voice, can you do that for me, please?”</p>
<p>She nods.</p>
<p>She is Bianchi.</p>
<p>Mamma and Papa’s daughter. Pink rose. The Famiglia’s heiress.</p>
<p><em> She is Bianchi</em>, and when she repeats it enough times, she can keep breathing.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>thoughts?</p>
<p>/</p>
<p>Please be respectful and don't post or translate my work as your own. Go to my profile for more details and information on ✨writing updates✨</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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